Pots for Sale
by TabooLess
Summary: Cling-a-ling-a-ling! The sound of a bell ringing. A man simply looking for a pot. Something that seems so simple and yet it is still so complicated. Why does it seem like all the pots in this world are broken? Perhaps the problem lies somewhere else... Yes, there is a meaning behind this story!


Hello friends! I must say, it has been quite a while since I have published anything. I recently found this old story I wrote for my English class and thought I'd might as well share it.

Anyway, I hope you enjoy!

_Cling-a-ling-a-ling!_

The bell above _Pot Paradise'_s door rang loudly as someone entered the store. The saleswoman quickly looked up from her cell phone and smiled toothily, eyeing the blue capped man that just walked in. "Hi there! How can I help you?" she asked, showing off a flirty smile and a plunging cleavage. The man simply answered with a grunt, a shake of the head and a quick turn down the first aisle. The woman huffed, insulted by his apparent interest in the store's merchandise rather than her own. "Fine then, don't look a' me, I don't care!" the twenty-odd muttered under her breath while looking out at the grey sky. "He's prob'ly gay…"

Anyhow, this blue capped man simply wished to buy a pot for his wife, not gawk at a Barbie's breasts. But while _Pot_ _Paradise_ was vast and filled with all kinds of shapes, colours and sizes, our protagonist did not seem to find what he was looking for. He rummaged throughout the entire store, picked up items and put them back down. Sometimes, after inspection, he would take out a water bottle from his jean jacket and pour water in the pot he was currently holding then tried to pour it back in the bottle. Every time, the pot would spill or leak. Finally, he walked back to the counter with a heavy sigh. This was the last store in the city. "Excuse me." he said as the woman pretended she didn't hear him. He called out to her a bit louder and this time she turned. According to her name tag, she was Carol. "Yes? Can I help ya?" she smiled, her voice dripping honey. "I'm looking for a pot." "Course ya are, sir. Pots are what we sell here." "Yes, well, you see, I can't find one." Her smile froze. "Whaddya mean? There's plenty of 'em." The man started tapping his fingers on the wooden counter. "What I mean is that I can't find a good one. Everything I looked at was crooked or cracked or couldn't pour properly."

Carol didn't look surprised. She leaned forward, once again emphasizing her quadruple M bust. As if she held national secrets, she whispered: "Sir, the problem is that nowadays the clay they use ta make pots is rotten." He asked her what she meant by rotten. Everyone knows that clay doesn't rot. "I heard from valuable sources -once again she was a secret agent - that ya can't make a good pot anymore. When ya try to mould it, it resists yer hand and won't bend properly or just caves in at the slightest touch. When it comes to baking… Ya probably saw that most of our stock is cracked?" He nodded. "Well that's 'cause tha clay can't stand tha heat anymore. It used ta be more resistant but now… I really wish I could do more for ya, sir…" And then came out the dimples and the flick of her luscious black hair. He thanked her for the help and, feeling rather dejected, walked back out the door with a cling of the bell and a slump in his walk. His wife was scary when she didn't get what she wanted... Head hanging low, he slipped in a puddle, cursed then turned down a small alley, completely soaked. There he saw a decrepit booth owned by a slightly less decrepit old man. However, stacked on the shelves were rows upon rows of beautifully coloured pots. "Excuse me, old man, are your pots good?" "Well o'course they are, son! Why do ya think they're 'ere? I'm Bert, just so ya know." "So, Bert, do they pour well?" our man insisted. "Didn't I tell ya they were perfectly good? C'mere, I'll letya try em." Sure enough, any pot old man Bert handed his blue capped fellow poured like a charm. Overhead, the clouds seemed to let up and sunshine streamed down. Finally, he had found a good pot!

In front of the other man's surprise, Bert explained: "Ya see, loads o' people think it's all about tha clay. I can tell ya, clay's tha same as it used ta be. It's people tha problem. They don't know how ta make a good pot an it's easier ta blame it on tha clay right?" When he saw that the younger man listened intently, he kept going. "O' course they didna think it woulda been so hard to mould properly, no son. Ya can't just stop in tha middle of work and yah can't always take a day off. Ya gotta try to make the fire jus' tha right temperature and even then sometimes it ain't possible, but ya gotta try! And ya gotta be gentle to make sure pots don't close up but ya have ta be firm enough to make sure they bends to yer touch. Most o' all, people have problems with getting their hands dirty. Ya gotta use yer two own hands, not just a bunch o' fancy toys. Come back an' I'll show ya, boy. A lot o' pots out there are messed up, but ya can always find some good. Ya just gotta know where ta look." And with those wise words, and a mostly toothless grin, old Bert left his new blue capped friend to his thoughts.

Please leave a comment, but flames are never welcome :)

Questions and hypotheses about your interpretation of the symbolism behind the story on the other hand... Thanks yall!


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